


Foul Heart

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dark, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU scenario: What if Faramir had taken the Ring from Frodo?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foul Heart

_Fair speech may hide a foul heart._  
Sam, The Two Towers

Waking.

Black fog pressed against Frodo’s head, dulling an urgency that something dreadful had happened just before he slept. Gandalf had fallen into the abyss, leaving the company leaderless…Boromir had tried to take the Ring…Frodo and Sam had been captured by Boromir’s brother.

“Sam.” His voice came out in little more than a croak, and more blackness pressed on his heart. His body ached, as if he had been flung about. He groped through the dark of his memory, trying to piece something together, some reason he had fallen into sleep with such dreadful feeling. He had eaten well last night, had drunk golden wine, and he had laughed in merriment for the first time in weeks. Frodo’s hand fumbled at his chest, frantically feeling inside his shirt.

_Gray eyes turned to steel and strong fist grabbed._

“I need this weapon.”

“No!” Frodo had shrunk back against the wall, but the much stronger fist had twisted, breaking the chain.

Faramir’s voice, which had been fair and kind, dropped to a growl. “If as you claim, you are not an enemy, it is your duty to hand it over to the Captain of Gondor, seeing how you are in our land.”

Gone. It was gone.

Frodo tried to take a deep, calming breath, but he gasped when sharp pain shot up his ribs. Sam should be by his side. His heart burned thinking about his Sam, who had fought so valiantly by his side. Frodo’s cheek, pressed against the cold damp of a cavern floor, had numbed, but the opposite cheek throbbed as if cruel fingers dug into and twisted in the folds of his skin. He could not open one of his eyes.

Faramir had ripped it from Frodo’s neck with no mercy, leaving a gaping hole in his chest that had turned to ice. He now knew what it was to hate. Oh, how he hated. He had warned himself against the weakness of Men, and he had remained cautious against confiding in the seemingly kind man. But Sam’s tongue had slipped.

_Sam lay motionless, staring up at the ceiling through sightless eyes, an arrow through his throat, his little sword still clenched in his fist.  
_“Sam,” Frodo choked, unable to shed tears. His eyes burned with hatred for the one who had taken it.

Heavy booted steps approached the alcove, and Frodo shut his eyes, trying to gather the strength to fight again. For he would fight until it was once again in his hands or he perished trying.

“I made a promise,” he murmured, though his fingers cared not for promises. They itched only to feel again the cool circle of gold.

“Frodo.” Faramir knelt beside him. Frodo glanced over the Ranger’s body, taking note of pockets and pouches. Where would he have stored it? He surely valued it above all else now and would keep it on his person. Frodo could snag the hunting knife in his belt and deliver a swift stab to the belly or throat or whichever was closer. The Captain of Gondor, no nobler than his brother and less so because he had succeeded, would bleed, and Frodo would not care. Then he could slip on the Ring and disappear before he was slain by the other Rangers.

No need to worry about rescuing Sam. He swallowed the lump in his throat. There was no time to grieve. Not all hope was lost.

“Allow me to tend to your injuries,” Faramir said, kneeling beside him. “I am sorry it was necessary for my men to use such force. And I am sorry about your companion. When he drew his sword and charged, I fear Anborn only acted as he had been trained.”

“Sam would have gladly killed you,” Frodo said, his voice low with venom. “And I wish to, too. Will you not slay me, too?”

Faramir smiled grimly. “I should not think that would be necessary. I do not slay man or beast or halfling needlessly, and not gladly when needed. I do not derive pleasure from even the slaying of an Orc. No, in fact I shall take you back to Mithrandir, who is now in my city, and to present this great weapon to…Father.” His lips turned up in a cold smile and his eyes grew distant. “Mithrandir shall help you return home to your Shire, and I shall bring hope to Gondor -- victory against the Shadow.”

Frodo shook suddenly with chills. The finality of his failure, the death of hope, seeped through his limbs, making him heavy, melding him to the cavern floor. That he had laughed with joy only the night before seemed like a cruel dream.

“Come now, allow me to tend you. I think surely you must be in pain where you were kicked.”

Frodo nodded, though his eyes fixed on a small knife attached to Faramir’s belt. As soon as Faramir bent over him, he struck quickly, grabbing the hilt and pulling. The knife was longer than he anticipated, and he had time only to slide it halfway out before Faramir slammed his hand over his head, forcing him to release the hilt.

“That, my friend, was a mistake.” His voice was low, and it cut deep, and an icy cold seeped over Frodo’s wounded shoulder. A glow filled Faramir’s eyes, cold and malicious, and Frodo caught a glimpse of what he would become when at last the Ring took him. “For now I shall find it necessary to bind your hands.”

Still gripping Frodo’s right wrist, he grabbed the other and wrenched both behind Frodo’s back, none too gently. Frodo cried out in pain and frustration, aiming vicious kicks at Faramir. One kick hit something hard, perhaps a kneecap, and Faramir cursed, yanking Frodo’s hands up his back and tying the rope so tightly that it burned into Frodo’s skin.

“Shall I bind your feet as well?” Faramir hissed in Frodo’s ear, leaning on him with just enough weight to pin him to the ground and limit movement.

“You must give it back,” Frodo said through gritted teeth, but he stilled his feet, lest Faramir would carry through on his threat. Another chance might present itself later.

Faramir whispered in Frodo’s ear, and this time his voice was gentler. “There is no need to be so vexed, halfling. You seem to bear the misunderstanding that I have stolen it from you. I give you my word that I shall use it only for victory against Sauron. The word of a Man of Gondor is true. You shall have it back. Until then, I fear I must hold you captive, lest a knife slice my throat while I sleep.”

  
***

In a dungeon far below the Citadel, time passed in strange leaps and crawls. Sometimes Frodo would be certain a year had passed, and he would be right. Other times only five minutes had passed. And yet other times two or three years had gone by. Yes, time passed, but the festering, burning itch in his mind never eased. Long past the time when even Sam’s death had begun to curl and fade in his thoughts, the Ring taunted and gleamed in his mind and his longing to hold it tormented both sleep and waking.

“I’ll hate him forever,” Frodo whispered into the heavy darkness, clutching his hands into fists. “Forever.”

From the few guards who would speak to him, he learned that the War had gone as Faramir wished. But these men spoke of Faramir not with pride, but with fear, always looking behind them as if they expected him to be watching and listening in every shadow. Faramir had cast down the Shadow – and along with this victory, his father, who had tried to wrestle from him some “Elvish weapon.” He had also cast down a Ranger from the North who had dared try to supplant him. Mithrandir had been banished. He heard no news of other halflings in Minas Tirith, and he desperately hoped Merry and Pippin had made it back home – or at least had found an easy end.

Frodo found that if he imagined the rolling hills of the Shire still green and the apples ripe and red, then the tormenting band of gold that burned inside his broken mind would diminish…at least for awhile.

  
END


End file.
